Treasure of the Celtic Triangle Read online

  As Grey Tide struggled to ease herself to the ground, Steven pushed with all his might to make sure she came down on her side. Even as she did, the head of the foal was fully visible. The mare’s contractions were coming steady and strong.

  “I’ll have to go inside to find the legs,” said Steven when Grey Tide was lying comfortably on the ground. “Lady Florilyn, I’ll need your help. I know this may be unpleasant—but can you be brave and help me?”

  “I’ll try, Steven.”

  “Kneel down here. Do you see—the head is out. Grasp the little torso just below the head with both your hands. Come—I’ll help you.” Steven took Florilyn’s two hands and set them gently around the white mass. “Here, Lady Florilyn—we must move quickly. You can see the head and neck, can you not?”

  “Yes … oh, ugh!”

  “Now with your hand like this … Good—now very gently apply a little pressure and try to prevent the foal coming further until I have the legs out … very gently. Can you do that?”

  “I think so … Oh, it’s all wet and sticky … ick!”

  “Be brave, Lady Florilyn. We have to try to save Grey Tide’s foal. Now I have to go back inside. I must get the forelegs out before the foal tries to get up. The minute she is breathing her instinct will be to stand. If her legs are still inside, she could damage Grey Tide’s insides.”

  Again Steven reached inside. He felt along the length of the foal’s slender body, now about half exposed. Gradually he managed to extricate first one tiny hoof and leg, then the other.

  “The forelegs are out—good,” he said at length. “Now, Lady Florilyn, very gently … pull. We can let her come the rest of the way.”

  Still grimacing but clutching firmly around the tiny form, Florilyn did as Steven said. Almost instantly the foal slid the rest of the way until only her back legs still rested inside.

  Kneeling beside Florilyn, Steven set his hands atop Florilyn’s. “Pull again. We must get the other two legs out.”

  Within seconds the tiny form lay motionless on the ground before them. The birth was over, but the foal was not breathing.

  “Is … is it dead?” asked Florilyn as she gazed down at the wet, bloody mass in front of her.

  “I don’t know,” said Steven, jumping to his feet. He grabbed several handfuls of clean straw from across the stall and tossed it in front of Florilyn. “Here, wipe it down with dry straw. Try to get the mouth open if you can.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked in sudden panic.

  “Just over here,” said Steven as he walked around the large form of the mother lying on her side recovering from the birth. “I need to get Grey Tide on her feet. We’ll need her help to save her foal. While I’m doing that, tickle the foal’s nose with a piece of straw and blow into its mouth and nose.”

  Tentatively Florilyn took some of the straw and began wiping at the wet, limp form.

  “Oh … Steven—something’s happening. Oh, ick … There’s a lot of blood and icky-looking stuff coming out—ugh. I think Grey Tide’s bleeding!”

  “It’s the afterbirth. Nothing to worry about … though it usually takes twenty minutes to an hour. This is fast. Come, Grey Tide … up! Come, girl, you need to help us get your little foal breathing.” Steven pushed and cajoled, but the poor mare was obviously spent. “Any sign of life?” he called out to Florilyn.

  “No. I think he’s dead.”

  “Is it a colt?”

  “Oh, I … I don’t know. I didn’t actually … look.” Florilyn was now stroking the lifeless little head gently with one hand. With two fingers inside its mouth, she blew at its nose and mouth and tried to coax life into being.

  With a swaying and wriggling, Grey Tide struggled to her forelegs then up to her feet. Steven was careful to lead her a few steps forward before allowing her to turn around. As she turned, she gave a low snort then bent her long nose toward the newborn, nudged its head a time or two, but then turned toward the messy mass on the ground.

  “Oh, no … ick. Goodness, Steven!” cried Florilyn. “She’s trying to eat it! How disgusting!”

  “She’s just doing what instinct tells her. Come, Grey Tide,” he said, trying to pull her back. “Time for all that later. Your little baby needs you. I’ll get rid of it so you won’t be distracted.” He grabbed a shovel and scooped up the afterbirth and removed it from the stall.

  Soon Grey Tide was bent down toward her little son, as confirmed by Steven, licking its head and nose where they lay on Florilyn’s lap.

  Steven bent down and began rubbing vigorously and gently squeezing the foal’s ribs. Still there was no response. He lifted one of the tiny feet off the ground and dropped it. Then again.

  Suddenly, the colt’s head jerked on the side of Florilyn’s leg. The same instant she felt a fierce sucking on her fingers. As if jolted by a bolt of lightning, suddenly the whole tiny body trembled.

  “Steven … what should I do?” exclaimed Florilyn. “It’s going to pull my fingers off.”

  “Nothing, just relax. You’ve done what you needed to do—you brought him back to life. Let his head rest on your lap another minute. He’s got to get used to all this. Give him a minute.”

  Steven knelt beside her. “He seems to be breathing normally. That’s good. I think he’ll be fine. Good work, Grey Tide,” he said, patting the mother’s nose as she continued to lick the tiny face. “Remove your fingers from its mouth when you can,” said Steven. “He needs to smell Grey Tide.”

  Slowly Florilyn did so.

  “Now, very gently … ease yourself back and set the little head on the floor. We need to leave mother and foal together. He needs to get used to her smell.”

  Gradually Florilyn scooted away.

  “Good,” said Steven, smiling at her. “Now we wait.”

  “What will happen next?” asked Florilyn.

  “He’s only been breathing about a minute,” replied Steven. “He’ll get used to that, and then he’ll lift his head. You see how he’s just lying flat on his side? He’ll be upright in a matter of minutes. Right from birth, horses have remarkably strong necks. After that, though he is still weak, instinct will make him try to get up.”

  Steven rose and glanced about the stall. “It looks like … yes, the cord has broken. That’s good. I need to apply iodine to the stump so it will dry. Do you mind being alone a minute?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just over to the cabinet where Hollin keeps his supplies.” Steven hurried away and returned quickly with the bottle of iodine. Florilyn watched in amazement as he checked the stump where the cord had broken and carefully doused it with iodine.

  “How do you know how to do all this?” asked Florilyn.

  “When you’re a shepherd you grow up taking care of animals. It’s part of the shepherd’s life.”

  “You’re not a shepherd anymore, Steven.”

  “I will always think of myself as one.” When the procedure was complete, he knelt back.

  “When will he be able to stand?” asked Florilyn.

  “It will be soon,” replied Steven. “Half an hour after he stands, we’ll lead Grey Tide to the grass outside. The little foal will follow, somewhat wobbly. He will be walking and running before you know it. As soon as he’s on his feet, he will try to suckle.”

  “How does he know … where to suck?” asked Florilyn.

  “It takes some time. It’s random at first. But Grey Tide will help him find the right place. It is instinctive. Both know what to do. By the way, what is his name?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s got to have a name. Grey Tide is your mare. You should be the one who names her foal.”

  “Oh … I suppose you’re right. How exciting. Let me think.”

  It was quiet a few moments. Both sat watching mare and foal with their noses together. Grey Tide continued to lick and sniff at the tiny face and head.

  “Oh look, Steven … it’s just like you said!” exclaimed Florilyn. “Look�
��he’s lifting his head and squirming about. Is he trying to stand?”

  “Mostly just now to get his legs beneath his body. But he is feeling his legs, feeling their strength. He will try to stand up any minute now.”

  “I love his color. It’s such a light golden hue. Will the color stay as it is?”

  “Probably. It may darken in time, but it will always be tan or, as you say, golden.”

  “Then I think I have decided on a name. He shall be called Nugget.”

  “A brilliant name. I like it. Well done! And thank you for your help. You did very well. Was this your first birthing?”

  “Couldn’t you tell?” laughed Florilyn. “I was in a panic.”

  “I suppose I could,” chuckled Steven. “You weren’t exactly calm and collected.”

  “I was terrified!”

  “I’m sorry to say it, but your riding clothes are a mess,” said Steven. “I don’t ever think I’ve seen you look quite so … earthy.”

  Suddenly Florilyn realized what she must look like. She glanced down at her hands and dress—covered with dirt and blood. “You’re right—what a sight I must be!” she exclaimed. “I will definitely not be going for a ride in these clothes,” she added, laughing.

  “You look lovely—just like a farm girl! And I am glad you were here. You probably saved little Nugget’s life.” “How could that be?”

  “If you hadn’t come for me when you did, there is no telling what might have happened. In just those first few seconds before Grey Tide got to him, touching him, stroking his head, making sure his mouth was open—those seconds may have made the difference between life and death.”

  Steven rose to his feet and extended his hand to Florilyn where she still knelt on the floor of the stall. “I think we can leave mother and son alone for a while now,” he said.

  Florilyn reached up. She took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet. “Then I think I will go inside and change my clothes,” she said. “I’m afraid these may now be fit only for the rubbish bin.”

  “Well done again, Lady Florilyn,” said Steven as Florilyn left the stall and walked toward the door of the barn.

  She paused and turned back. “It sounds funny to have you call me that,” she said with an odd smile. “I mean, after sharing something like this, why should I call you just Steven and you have to call me Lady Florilyn? I would rather you simply called me by name.”

  “But you are a lady,” said Steven.

  “That’s not how I think of myself. If you can still think of yourself as a shepherd, why can’t I just think of myself as an ordinary girl?” “You’re hardly a girl.”

  “Don’t confuse me with the facts,” laughed Florilyn. “If you have the right to think of yourself as you want to, why don’t I?”

  “Your logic has the parallel between you and me backward.”

  “Girls don’t have to be logical, don’t you know.”

  Steven laughed at the logic even of her illogical argument.

  “Besides,” Florilyn added with a smile, “look at me. As you pointed out, do I look like a lady?”

  Again Steven chuckled. “You have a point. But you always will be a lady to me. However, I will address you any way you like.”

  “Then please call me Florilyn. If something like this doesn’t make us equals, I don’t know what does.”

  “All right … Florilyn,” nodded Steven. “As you wish. I consider myself honored to be allowed the privilege.”

  Florilyn smiled then continued out of the barn and to the house.

  By the time she returned twenty minutes later, along with her mother to see the new colt, Nugget had begun struggling to stand on his four slender, frail legs. She and Katherine and Steven watched, laughing a good deal at the humorous attempt.

  “He’s such a little dear!” said Florilyn. “There is nothing so cute as a baby animal. Just look at him, Steven!”

  An hour later, mother and son were outside on the enclosed grass between the stables. By then Nugget had found his feet and had begun to scamper about, alternating between suckling from beneath Grey Tide and exploring his new environment. Seemingly uninterested in her foal’s antics, Grey Tide munched away on the grass at her feet and from a bale of hay Steven had provided.

  Florilyn spent most of the day sitting on a low bench on one side of the enclosure, watching every move the little foal made. Steven’s words had plunged deep into her heart. If she had not actually saved the little colt’s life, that she may have helped in a small way to do so gave her a feeling that she had never had before. She would always feel a special bond with this little horse. She imagined that perhaps Nugget felt it, too.

  Many times throughout the day, as he became used to her sight and smell where she sat calmly watching, he wandered over for brief sniffing visits. He took one of several naps of the afternoon at Florilyn’s side, sleeping peacefully as Florilyn gently stroked his neck and back.

  TWELVE

  Over His Head

  Courtenay pondered Litchfield’s offer for several days. The thought that with a mere signature on a piece of paper he could raise a sum of badly needed cash sent him into a near frenzy of anticipation to move the thing forward with all possible haste. Realistically, however, how much good would a paltry hundred and sixty pounds do him? It would only bring him forty pounds immediately, with the remainder not coming until he was twenty-five. Selling the man twenty acres was hardly the solution he needed.

  Forty pounds! Courtenay thought. It was a laughable amount. He had burned through more than that in a week on the continent! It would do nothing to resolve his financial predicament.

  Perhaps the man was making a fair offer. For all he knew, five pounds might be the going rate for acreage. But the language in the man’s letters sounded as if money was the least of his problems. If he was a wealthy man, as he said, why not call his bluff and push him to the limit? There was no reason to part with a portion of the estate unless it put him in a significantly stronger financial position. He might be able to get double, perhaps triple, what Litchfield had put forward.

  When he began his next letter to London, Courtenay knew he was running a risk. He might shove the man away. But in his gut, he doubted it. The fellow obviously wanted the land. Well then, let him jolly well pay for it. He could play the game, too. He would show the Londoner that he wasn’t dealing with some country bumpkin.

  Lord Litchfield, he began,

  While I appreciate the offer set out in your last letter, I really could not possibly entertain the thought of selling land that has been in our family for centuries for less than ten pounds an acre for one thousand acres. I would not want you to interpret this as a commitment to that figure. But that is certainly the minimum I would look at.

  If you are interested in submitting a more realistic offer, I will entertain it. Otherwise, I will consult my financial advisors with the aim of presenting you a counter proposal.

  Should you choose to submit an alternative offer, I would also want to receive no less than one-third in payment upfront, with two-thirds to be paid at the finalization of the sale.

  Yours faithfully,

  Courtenay Westbrooke

  Litchfield read the communication and smiled. His ploy had worked to perfection. He doubted the boy even had any financial advisors. He was in over his head and had no idea who he was dealing with.

  Litchfield knew he would probably have gone as high as fifty pounds an acre to the boy’s father. Now here they were quibbling about price in the vicinity of ten!

  The five-year wait appeared to have been well spent. It looked like he might get his land for a fraction of what he might have laid out for the project earlier.

  Mr. Westbrooke,

  I see that your father raised his son to be as shrewd as he was himself. You are an able negotiator and, as the saying goes, drive a hard bargain. As you have me at a disadvantage, since it is your land I desire to purchase and no other, it would seem that I have no alternative but to yield to y
our terms.

  The amount you speak of is admittedly very high. It would take me some time to raise such capital. I assume, as you mention a minimum figure of ten pounds for a thousand acres that your acceptable terms for lesser acreage would be correspondingly higher.

  Let me propose the following: sixteen pounds an acre for five hundred acres, a total of £8,000; or thirteen pounds an acre for one thousand acres, or £13,000.

  If those terms are acceptable to you, I will have the preliminary papers drawn up. That will take some time, and winter will soon be upon us. But if you find my offer satisfactory, I will set the process in motion. Then we can arrange a time that is mutually acceptable for me to visit you in Wales, perhaps in the spring. At that time we can formalize our intentions. I will also agree to your stipulation of one-third down. When I come, upon receipt of your signature on the documents, I will place a check for either £2,700 or £4,400 into your hands.

  I am,

  Sincerely yours,

  Lord Coleraine Litchfield

  Courtenay’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he read Litch-field’s letter. He had done it! He had successfully extracted from Litchfield a commitment for more than triple his original offer. This would definitely get him out of his financial straits and keep him flush until his twenty-fifth birthday.

  He wouldn’t need his mother’s money now. Let her eat cake!

  THIRTEEN

  Reflections

  Percy Drummond had not forgotten his uncle Roderick’s mysterious deathbed commission of the previous June that had enjoined him to secrecy on an assignment he little understood.

  The viscount had been fond of Percy. The lad’s engagement to his daughter had put the viscount in an exuberant, even reckless mood. He and Percy had gone riding the next day. For their ride he took out the dangerous black stallion Demon. It was a decision that cost him his life. The tempestuous horse had thrown him while leaping an uneven and rocky stream. The viscount’s fall proved mortal. He had broken several bones and badly injured his neck. Both paralysis and gangrene soon became apparent.